


Junk flashed minds

by awesomissima



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Smut, Street Racing, Suicide, temporary rovinsky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 11:21:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20795825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awesomissima/pseuds/awesomissima
Summary: Rule number one of Academia Vivarium Novum: all the students have to wear the uniform.Rule number two of Academia Vivarium Novum: all students are expected to maintain certain norms of behavior.Rule number three of Academia Vivaroum Novum: get the fuck out when class is over and, no matter what happens, don't let well-dressed bonobos distract you.(What if it all happened in Rome?)"Most of all, he couldn't look into his eyes, whenever he did, there was something beating inside of him, the perception that Ronan's eyes could dissolve his humanity completely just to give himself to him, endlessly, to live for his next gaze. He had never died as much as he did whenever he looked into Ronan's eyes." (From chapter two.)""It is necessary for a prince wishing to hold his own to know how to do wrong, and to make use of it or not according to necessity." - Niccolò Machiavelli (From Chapter Three)"'Why haven’t they made great rubbish dumps for the days already used, for these and other evenings?'" (From chapter four)"Tell me i'm a good person." (From Chapter Five)





	1. Prologue

"_ Pupils from sixteen to twenty-five years of age, already in possession of the fundamentals of Latin grammar and a solid foundation of vocabulary, are admitted to the Academy. Room, board and classes are sustained through scholarships from the Mnemosyne foundation. Each year no more than forty students are accepted in the male boarding school for the winter program. Finally, all students are expected to maintain certain norms of behavior _."

He was reading strenuously the admission letter and he just couldn't believe it was really happening: he was officially allowed to attend Accademia Vivarium novum.

For once, after he passed an entire hour reading and rereading those words, he looked out the skylight of his room: the low and heavy sky on the Tiburtina had a very dark color, laden with humidity, which released an abundant and long-lasting rain. It was not unusual in late September.

New school meant new life: more work, less sleep. More secrets, more risks with his family.

A new life meant definitely a new chance to start over.

That opportunity meant for him real redemption, a way to get out from that jail of asbestos-cement and cellulose fibre-cement: what Tiburtina had been for him since the release of his first breath in this pathetic world, sixteen years before.

He tried to analyze his feelings: he was obviously excited, restless in a positive way, he was also flattered because the Academia had chosen him for a scholarship but, then, he thought he should have told his family, his father and, immediately, he felt his mouth dry. It felt like to him the entire Gobi desert had moved in his sore throat: there was no way his father could accept or appreciate his decision. His stomach shrunk to half its size under the force of nausea.

It didn't matter if the Accademia was an international institution, it didn't matter if it shaped great minds, it didn't matter if it was sought after among the most powerful surrounding families of the time, it didn't matter if it could give him a chance at a prestigious position at the peak of society and a better life. It didn't matter if he had won a scholarship. 

Adam away far from home for nine hours, mattered.

Adam involved in more important studies - not in a gratifying way -, mattered.

Adam wishing for new different life, mattered.

Adam dreaming of running away from poverty, mattered.

Adam choosing to not become his father, mattered.

All those things meant only one thing for Robert: his son was trying to escape from his family responsibilities without repairing his biggest debt and duty: his birth.

And Adam knew it even before his father would start yelling at him and at his fancy school. He could foresee every single word, every single reaction of his before they happened and while they were happening.

Things had always been that way.

Since he was a child, he've had this recurring dream: he was running away from fires and wherever he looked there were fires, fires, fires, and hands trying to suck him into it. Those hands had no faces but it didn't matter how far he ran away, they were always beside him. 

Wherever he was running, finally, he could see at least one face. It was his father's face.

And he could see him running after him through the fiery fields of his twisted sorrow.

Usually, when it happened, he woke up and tough about all the decisions and choices he would make throughout the day then he changed his mind to not upset his father.

But not on that day.

That day, in his dreams, it began raining and he kept his face up, closed his eyes and layed in the middle of his fields, letting raindrops caress his cheeks.

  
  


  * ●●

  
  


_ Rule number one of Academia Vivarium Novum: all the students have to wear the uniform. _

He had bought a secondhand one: it almost looked like new and the Crest of the school - an eagle - was still perfect and shiny on the chest of his jacket. 

That eagle was the reason why Academia students were called Eagle Boys. He was not sure if he was an Eagle Boy now, but he hoped he looked like one of them in spite of the sewing came loose on a shoulder, at least. 

Or, at least, he thought so.

When he was about to enter the gates of the school, knuckling the handlebars of his bike, he saw them: the Eagle boys. He saw their Real perfect uniforms, he perceived their self-confidence. It was like money smelled of power and knowledge and they surely had a lot of money, a bank of money instead of him that reeked of misery.

A Harley Davidson raced beside him dismissing the common sense of being on avenue full of people and he nervously covered the loose sewing on his shoulder with one hand.

He looked at that motorcycle and its owner. As he thought 'Asshole: where is your helmet?' a guy said it out loud, without cursing at the owner even if Adam believed he deserved to be insulted, at least.

This guy said instead: "You're reckless, impulsive! Where is your helmet?"

Asshole Owner bent his lips in a cruel grin and passed one hand over his buzzcut: "I'm not even old enough to drive _ her _!"

Asshole: he referred to his motorcycle like it was a person. A female person.

_ Asshole _.

Adam persuaded himself it was better to pass on that little show but as he walked past Asshole Owner, he turned around to face him. His eyes forced him to stop, they were blue not like oceans or skies but like the iceberg that sank the Titanic. They stared at each other straight in the eyes and Adam felt troubled by them, he felt like breathing had become impossible.

It felt like a long moment but it had probably been a matter of seconds.

He started breathing again and let him behind, preferring to get quickly inside school instead.

Suddenly he felt like he was escaping from fire, like in his dreams.

But this was reality.

And, in this reality, he was running away from ice. 

_ Rule number two of Academia Vivarium Novum: all students are expected to maintain certain norms of behavior. _

He was supposed to talk to other students and teachers in latin or in ancient Greek. Well, he was not "supposed": he had to do it indeed.

That was part of "norms of behavior" mentioned in the second rule of the school. 

What he "_ was supposed to do _" was following the rules but Adam immediately understood that the second one was fearlessly ignored from most of the students. Not only they categorically refused to speak each other in latin -for his relief, Adam thought that speaking quickly in latin or ancient greek was a hard thing to do and he found it, indeed, ostentatious and redundant - but most of them seemed to refuse acting like human being too, as soon as they were out of classrooms -for his relief, again, because it was so similar to his old public school-. Between classes, in the corridors, he felt like he was in the middle of a safari: full of well-dressed bonobos. He've never been to a safari but he thought it couldn't be different by those noisy rich boys. Probably there could be fewer morons and more stink, in a safari.

'Well-dressed bonobos', said a voice in his mind, 'but still well-dressed, at least, unlike you.'.

Bonobos with a bright future. A future they had never needed to conquer and it meant they would have never appreciated it. 

However, he knew that the best way to live his school life in peace was making himself invisible: a low profile through the corridors, a brilliant one during the lessons.

Lessons were the best part of the day: he could forget his secondhand uniform, his rusty bike in the schoolyard, he could forget the smell of poverty and could start to be the version of him he preferred. Insecure because of his uniform, because of his background, a bit disgusted by the bruises on his arms and ribs he constantly tried to hide under his sweater, during the lessons Adam began to shine. The bruises, his father's screams, the fatigue of too many hour spent working hard, his pride wounded by the abuse: those things didn't matter because, in class, he became his scholarship. And a scholarship meant a future, promises of better things, it meant he was worthy to be there and eserved all the opportunity the Accademia could give to him. Like a sponge, he soaked up everything he needed to grow up into the man he always wanted to be.

"It's ok if you wanna wag your tail everytime you give the right answer."

Asshole Owner was close to him and he hadn't noticed until he spoke. He had the cruel grin of that morning and same ice in his eyes. This time he didn't allowed them to trouble him.

"Where did you jump out of?"

"Who knows. From the easter egg?"*

_ Asshole. _ Adam was totally sure he hadn't been there, before. And he was also sure the Asshole hadn't jump out from an Easter Egg. Maybe he had been too focused on giving all the right answers to notice him but something did suggest him that The Asshole had just arrived in class. He was about to reply but his excessively thick italian accent kept him from doing so. He hissed with his lips tight and sat down in his seat.

Arguing with someone during class wasn't a part of "norm of behaviour: he was vaguely certain of that.

_ Rule number three of Academia Vivaroum Novum: get the fuck out when class is over and, no matter what happens, don't let well-dressed bonobos distract you. _

He wasn't sure it was an actual rule but it surely was for him. 

In the first place -or _ in primis _ as Academia would have wanted him to talk- he couldn't get home late. That was an easy trick: come back home before his father did so he could pretend he hadn't gotten out in the first place and, more importantly, he had never gone to some fancy school. Both of them knew it was a fake and surreal pantomime but it always seemed calm Robert down even if he actually knew where Adam had spent the whole day. Robert adored ignoring things he didn't like at all so they could cease to exist for him if he refused to acknowledge them as real.

It was fine, for Adam. Especially when he was one of nonexistent things in his father's mind.

Sons usually wanted to be acknowledged by their parents. Adam didn't. Adam strived for invisibility. 

Whenever his father came home visibly wasted or mad (or both: that two frequently fit togheter), yelling at that some _ rahatule** _ \- The only words Adam knew in what was supposed to be his first language, were insults.- or at the entire world, he ardently desired to become fully integrated into kitchen's plaster. No matter if he wasn't that _ rahatule _ that had cut him off because he was still the worst _ rahatule _: the one he had squirted into his mother sixteen years before and the one who constantly refuse to be grateful for be alive. 

Sometimes, Adam thought he was the worst _ rahatule _ just because he breathed and he couldn't just stop breathing so trying to make himself invisible was almost the only way to escape. It didn't work all the time but it did most times and it was enough.

In second place -or _ in secundis _ as Academia would have wanted him to talk- he didn't want well-dressed bonobos to distract him because he was certain they would immediately notice everything that was wrong about him.

It was not just about his appearance, it was about the perception of himself he knew he could give off to them. He felt like they could perceive all the dirt inside his soul, all that was rotten inside his mind, all the things he was hiding behind his composed appearance. 

Every evening he took a shower, back to work, he accurately avoided the mirror above the sink because his reflection was never what he wished to see. Alone in front of the mirror, with the urge to see a change in his reflection, a shred of dream in his hands, he usually tried to rationalize his emotion but tears and mud mixed up made it impossible. That was why he was totally nauseous by his own appearance.

He couldn't afford to let other people see even a small amount of his real revolting essence. He couldn't handle it, it would be hideously humiliating, too much. 

Considering that prospective was enough to make him anxious and claustrophobic which was not a good thing because then the others would notice his sweaty palms or his chapped lips ruined by his teeth.

In conclusion, so, it was better if well-dressed bonobos didn't get close to him.

He would have never predicted he was going to be the one to get close to one of them.

What caught his eye, in reality, was a Camaro. After that he saw who was probably the owner and he recognized him.

In the process of trying to fix a Camaro, doubled over the hood, was Richard Campell Gansey III. 

It was basically impossible not to know who he was since tvs had been pulsing with excitement for weeks talking about the presidential candidate's son going to attend school in Rome.

Richard Campell Gansey III was certainly rich beyond the dreams of avarice but he didn't look like a well-dressed bonobo. He looked like royal, proud without coming off arrogant and he was fixing a Camaro. He had stained his trousers with grease and that made him look real, approachable. Too approachable. Approachable enough that even Adam could consider actually, shamelessly, fecklessly approaching him.

"Do you want me to fix it? I know a little about cars." 

Before his mind could process anything, his lips had already began talking to him. The second he laid his eyes on him, Adam felt the blood freeze inside his veins. What would Richard Campell Gansey III think about him, about his embarrassing italian accent, about his uniform, about his knowledge on cars. He would immediately figure everything out.

He would figure out Adam was a simpleton from the outskirts of Rome.

He would figure out Adam knew "a little about cars" because he needed to work as mechanic to survive his pathetic life.

Rationally, Adam knew his mind was driving fast, too fast but he didn't know how to make it stop.

"No."

Suddenly he felt like drowning. His twisted mind, for once, had reached the right conclusion: Richard Campell Gansey III wouldn't have anything to do with him.

Thinking about drowning, it would have been better to be swallowed up by the earth than to stand in front of that guy while humiliation was crawling down his spin. He held his breath, trying to wet his lips with his tongue.

Then Richard Campell Gansey III dropped the rag he was holding in his hand and raised his eyebrows.

"I'd like you to show me how to fix it myself, if you could. There's no point having this car if i can't speak its language."

He offered him his hand after cleaning it on his trousers. Adam began to breathe again, came up to him and rolled up his sleeves over the elbows.

"Howdy, boy."

Oh no: The Asshole. Again.

"Oh no: The Asshole. "

"Thank you, boo, I enjoyed meeting you too."

"Have you already met Ronan?"

Unbelievable: The Asshole had a name. He bit his lower lips: he hadn't meant said it out loud but, he didn't apologize in the end. 

Ronan was sitting on the ground beside the Camaro and had raised his head to look at him. Looking into his eyes, Adam found ice of that morning once again and he found his cruel grin was destabilizing, beautiful in a feral way.

If Richard Gansey didn't look like a well-dressed bonobos neither did Ronan.

He oozed of interrupted beauty, of decaying richness. Something dangerous, something distressful.

He frowned: he absolutely didn't need something like that when he could found it back home. He was frightened by the possibility of getting lost in that ice. He was specialized in dealing with fire not with ice.

Adam preferred to let himself be blinded by Richard Gansey and turned his eyes on him.

"Same class-- I'm Adam."

"Wonderful. I'm Gansey"

They shook each other hands before beginning to fix the camaro.

From time to time he looked at Ronan thinking that the guy that he had seen with him that morning was surely Gansey. He hadn't recognize him. 

He hadn't saw him at all, probably. 

Because it was undeniable: he had been watching Ronan for the entire time.

  
"So… _ what do you know about Romanian kings? _"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jumping out from the Easter Egg: a popular italian joke. It refers to the italian practice of giving chocolate eggs, usually holding a toy inside, to children for easter day  
**rahatule: it meant "Piece of shit" in Romanian
> 
> English is not my first language and it is my first work in this language, because i'm Italian (you don't say?)  
In italy legal age to drive car is 18 and to drive motorcycle under 125cc is 15.  
In Rome there's really the Accademia Vivarium Novum and their uniforms haduly an eagle on the chest of the jacket!  
I have to thanks my bestfriend, my babygirl for betaing me even if she is studying for her exams. I do love her.  
Thanks, @crostiina.  
I don't know what to say and whitespaces make me nervous.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this first chapter!  
See you to the next!


	2. Fast and Furious - Rome drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Adam didn't hate Ronan but he couldn't bring himself to feel safe with him [...]he couldn't look into his eyes, whenever he did, there was something beating inside of him, the perception that Ronan's eyes could dissolve his humanity completely just to give himself to him, endlessly, to live for his next gaze."
> 
> (Be ready, motorcycle racing are coming)

He didn't know how but, in a couple of weeks, it looked like he had become friends with Richard Campbell Gansey III - or just Gansey as he wanted to be called-.

Gansey wasn't definitely what he would have expected by the son of a future US President. 

He was the kind of person that really cared about you when he asked how you were.

The kind of person to light up the room with a smile wherever he went.

Gansey was an avid student without being opinionated.

Gansey was the kind of person that would start talking to someone he had just met and explain what had drowned him there all the way from Washington DC.

_ 'In particular' _ , he told Adam on the day they met,  _ 'other than classic culture' _ , he continued wiping his hands on his trousers,  _ 'I'm here for Vlad Tepes's grave _ .'

Vlad Țepeş, Vlad III the Impaler commonly known as the inspiration for Dracula.

Gansey collected things from around the world, not random stuff, he loved collecting things with a hidden history. He liked learning about their colorful or dark stories. So, in a way, Gansey collected stories about historic things. 

Adam found providential that his last interest was a Romanian King, being Romanian himself, he liked to think that was a sign or even fate even if he didn't believe in fate, he believed in humans and in their ability to change their lives by working hard and doing the right choices. He let himself be charmed by Gansey telling a story about chivalry, crusades, people leading a resistance against the Habsburg Empire and against the Ottoman Caliphate, a story about a king worrying about his land, a story about treason and an exile, an exile that had taken Dracula's corpse all the way Italy, probably in Naples.

The way Gansey talked made it impossible not to found interesting whatever came out of his mouth. Before he realized, he was already pledged to his cause. 

It was a warm sensation, being part of something. It was a consolatory feeling living his real age, whenever he could, whenever he didn't have to work or when he hadn't been forced to stay at home because of his father's rage.

He spent the first weeks after their meeting watching him with scientific attention, attempting to know him while not idealizing him.

Gansey made it easy: he was as enthusiastic about everything concerning the act of learning amazing new things - often about that same Romanian king-, as he was totally unable to think before talking or, at least, to count to ten before he spoke.

Gansey was as disinterested when giving any kind of advice as he was accidentally rude when that same advice got too far, especially when it was related to Adam's finances or Adam's situation at home. Adam knew, in his heart, Gansey didn't do it deliberately but he couldn't avoid finding it annoying. 

In the beginning, he had tried to get over it but, in the end, he understood it was nearly impossible to ignore certain things. Or, at least, it was nearly impossible to do it without risking an ulcer.

He began with concise passive-aggressive answers: those were impossible to hold back. They were like geyser puffs of steam coming directly from the bottom of his soul. Soon it became clear that it wasn't enough and Adam learned to make himself be heard. 

Some days he just decided to not talk to him, to avoid arguing. Those small details allowed them to be friends without him being involved in syncopes of any kind. Adam knew it wasn't all his fault, he knew there wasn’t any fault at all. The only fault Gansey had was being born into a rich family that had always been rich: his actions were the result of the social context he was born into. He didn't mean to be rude, tactless or bossy: he didn't know how to interact with something messed-up which he hadn't first-hand experience. (Neither of a second, third or fourth hand experience).

Sometimes Adam was envious not of his money or his social condition or his life, but of all the easy chances Gansey had since he was born. Other times he just couldn't believe Gansey had decided to be friends with him.

Most of the time, anyway, it was amazing.

"So, your parents are from Romania. Marvelous! Can you speak Romanian?"

Gansey was also the kind of person that defined 'marvelous' to be the son of Romanian immigrants.

"Tell Salvini that*. No, the only words I know are insults."

"Marvelous!"

That was Ronan. There was a slight downside, in being with Gansey: Ronan Lynch.

Adam didn't hate Ronan but he couldn't bring himself to feel safe with him. Once, Gansey had told him that before his father's death, Ronan was different but Adam had turned his nose up, perplexed and reluctant, suspecting Gansey was just trying to minimize how twisted Ronan's behavior was and justify his bad habits.

Adam firmly believed that bad things happened to everyone: life was brutal, dirty. But that didn't justify bad habits, mean attitudes or self-destructive behaviors.

However, whenever Ronan woke up in a good mood, it was nice letting his jokes make him laugh.

Adam didn't mean to get stuck on hating Ronan regardless of what happened, he just drew his own conclusions. Sometimes they were positive -uncommon but not unheard of- and sometimes they were absolutely not - and Ronan made it very easy-.

Most of all, he couldn't look into his eyes, whenever he did, there was something beating inside of him, the perception that Ronan's eyes could dissolve his humanity completely just to give himself to him, endlessly, to live for his next gaze. He had never died as much as he did whenever he looked into Ronan's eyes. That was a sort of disintegration of his being, involving the impossibility of breathing. The most dangerous thing was that suffocation began to look more and more perturbing to him every time he looked at him. It was disturbing, delusional, he didn't like that part of him at all and he had no interest in finding it. He was absolutely terrified by the perspective that the rotten part he had perceived could truly exist somewhere inside his soul. 

He was terrified by the thought of losing his mind and his sight if he had looked at him for too long.

"Nenorocit."**

Although he played along to his joke smirking eloquently at him.

"Don't 'Nenorociting' me. Tell that to Salvini."

"Maybe it was a compliment."

Ronan didn't answer, he just stared at him with an indecipherable expression. He looked quite outraged and Adam raised his hands silently proclaiming his innocence.

"Ronan."

Gansey, unlike him, was calm but firm. He tended to be pretty paternalistic with Ronan even if he was just two years older than him and, extraordinarily, he seemed to listen to him, although not without a little of recalcitrance.

Ronan stuck out an arm pointing at him like it had been Adam's fault. And maybe it had been because he found teasing on him strangely hilarious. Only some times. It helped him exorcise all the fear Adam felt constantly coming out of him. 

"He is nenorociting me!" Ronan said with a winy distorted voice. 

"You don't even know what it means! Maybe it is a compliment!"

"It means Asshole."

"See!"

"Ronan, please. I haven’t had my coffee yet. And I need it to handle this--...both of you doing  _ this _ ."

"Ow. Ok, dad. I’ve had it. I gotta go."

As Ronan had dragged his chair making a deafening and cacophonous noise on the ground to get up, Gansey immediately jumped sprang to his feet. There was no sign of confrontation in his expression, but it betrayed the intention of persuading him to stay. Adam regretted his childish display, he didn’t want things to get this far, even if he knew it was going to happen, at the bottom of his heart. 

Gansey panted for a few seconds then he sighed.

"Ronan… I mean, have school."

"Oh, screw this fuckin school."

Adam also knew Ronan was going to answer that way even if he would have bet on a concise: "fuck school.". 

Ronan tried to leave, Gansey stopped him holding on to his arm: Adam could have foreseen that, too.

Adam had foreseen Ronan slipping out from Gansey's hand and it happened.

He had foreseen Gansey sighing brushing a thumb over his lower lip and it happened.

He had foreseen Ronan leaving slamming the door of the school cafeteria and it happened.

"I'm sorry, Adam."

He had foreseen even Gansey apologizing for something he hadn't actually done. And it happened.

Adam's attention shifted on the exit door of the cafeteria: in his mind, the image of Ronan slamming it kept happening as if it had been a frame in a damaged film. Ronan was there and then he wasn't. 

The year before that, at his former, public school, during philosophy class, it was customary of Adam and his classmates to pose always the same question to their philosophy teacher: 'Which one came first? The chicken or the egg?'. They literally adored the following back-and-forth.

Mr. Caruso, a philosophy teacher, was a person of great intellect but he was hilarious too.

Usually, he replied to their question with another more ironic one, something like: ' And then which one came first? The egg or my mac?'. However, on a cloudy Wednesday, he addressed their question with a single word:  _ 'The Acquis _ .' and that had been so unexpected they had gone immediately silent. 

'The Acquis' he learned later, reading the philosophy book, 'is a disordered mass of concepts, things, elements. A patchwork, a tangled conglomeration of too many things mixed together to figure out by which one it is composed.'.

Ronan was an Acquis.

He was a matrix of trouble and self-destruction that constantly, strenuously was struggling to prove his own existence in a world that didn't always get him and the feeling was mutual.

Thinking about Ronan made him gloomy and melancholic, it ended up with him being trapped in Ronan's raging sorrow.

"He didn't leave because of that stupid quarrel, you know. He just needed a reason to leave and to slam something."

Adam whispered, taking a sip of coffee. Gansey did not reply, not yet. He brushed one hand over his face and, slowly, sat down.

"It's… it's kind of--not a good time for him."

"I bet it's never a good time for him."

He knew he probably looked cold, merciless or unsympathetic but he could almost see what Gansey was getting to. Even if he had known him for just a month, Adam could have imagined what thoughts were behind the soft frown inside Gansey's eyes. It was not unusual, in fact, to witness that: Gansey was trying to find the right words that would have fully express his reason to be so damn compliant and sympathetic about Ronan's behaviors.

Sometimes he thought about Gansey's way of loving as all-embracing and unconditional and exactly why it made him feel safe, warm and flattered.

Other times he speculated about the possibility of it being also a way to hide his need for control on everything and his desire for everyone to gravitate around his orbit. He was certainly not proud of thinking that, but he couldn't say it wasn't spontaneous, it would have been hypocritical of him.

"He had a long night. Yesterday, the court has denied his motion for the reallocation of The Barns."

"...so?"

"Adam… it's complicated."

Raising one eyebrow, Adam was quite adamant, he was hell-bent on emphasizing that conversation in spite of the condescending tone in Gansey's voice, it was even possible he had gon bitter exactly because of that.

"Not really. You want to make it complicated."

"Not in the slightest. Everything in his life is complicated, difficult, impossible; everything is a continuous war of words, feelings, and instability, for him. He's constantly bothered by difficult decisions, threats, retaliation. He has just a lot going on right now. 

I feel absolutely powerless. I mean, what should I do? I can't just sit here and forget about it."

From the brisk pace of Gansey's word, his pitiful expression, his confused gesturing, Adam got the impression he was touching a neuralgic point. He could have stopped but the impression that Gansey could be trying to divert his attention from the core of the issue got him tense. Gansey had no right - not even to think - to resort to psychobabble in order to change Adam's point of view moreover he lost his temper whenever someone believed that a handful of pop-psych catchphrases could help in solving anything. He ground his teeth and looked at him straight in the eyes.

"You shouldn't do anything. You just can't fix anyone. You can't fix people even if you love them. Some of them can't be fixed, others don't want to be fixed. They are not things. And,  _ plus* _ , you should never let  _ their _ problems become  _ your _ problems. What the hell, Gansey: do you have so few problems that you need to take others in as they were yours?"

Gansey winced, it made him feel guilty but there was a part of him that honestly took pleasure in being the reason for his dismay. At the same time, he was perturbed by the chance of not knowing whether he should have stopped himself from continuing to rage on Gansey. The more he discovered that dark side of himself, the more disturbed he became. The idea of not knowing how bad that would have turned out was petrifying.

He bit his lower lip and held his breath, keeping looking in his eyes, blocked by a touch of neurasthenia, pressing on his throat.

"Am I interrupting anything?"

He had never been happy to see Noah as he was in the moment.

Breathing got easier again. 

Gansey shrugged and shook his head.

"Lynch?"

"He just left. I don't think he will come to school."

Noah nodded and lit a cigarette despite the no-smoking sign above his head, on the wall.

"What a big whoop. Fuck."

Yeah, Noah:  _ Fuck _ .

  
  
  


  * ●●

  
  


'Would you please come out? I'm outside your house, right now.'

What happened was that they avoided talking about that morning for the entire day.

What happened was that Gansey sent him a text, at 2 a.m. and he was still awake, grinding up his feelings after that morning.

What happened was that, after how he had reacted, Adam felt morally obligated to join him, sneaking out from the house behind his father's back. He did it quickly and anxiously: the idea of a Camaro in Tiburtina wasn't definitely the most reassuring.

What happened was that Adam soundlessly slithered in the darkness of the two-room apartment, with labored breath, experiencing the rush of doing something forbidden, something that he was not supposed to do. Doing it proved to be unexpectedly electrifying and he felt really free for the first time in his life.

What happened was that Gansey looked fatigued, burdened by the weight of the entire world or, more probably, with matters of someone else that he had purposefully decided to be responsible for: it was the same matter that had inflamed Adam that morning but now it made him apprehensive, now he took pity of him.

"Ronan has disappeared for the whole day and he is not answering any of mine or his brother's calls."

Gansey murmured laying his forehead on the steering wheel, he looked exhausted, worn out by his own anxieties. Adam let out a deep sigh, trying to find a solution. In reality, he was inwardly concerned about Ronan, some of it was also his fault.

"And you have absolutely no idea where he might be?"

Gansey groaned softly and wearily.

"He took the Harley Davidson. I might know  _ what _ he is doing but not  _ where _ he is doing that."

"Stop speaking in riddles. You look like the sphinx. It doesn't help. What the hell is he doing, then?"

Gansey's lips let out another whine as he straighten up on his seat. He looked at him and parted his lips still without making a sound.

"Underground motorcycle racing."

Adam clucked his tongue and nodded.

"Fine. I mean: no, it's not fine at all but maybe I know where he is."

What happened was that Adam led Gansey and his Camaro to the Olimpica, level with Gregorio VII's Avenue.

" _ Mon Dieu _ … it's like I've been catapulted into another world."

Gansey had a point: Adam had never been there before, he had just heard about it and even though he had read about it in the papers, he couldn't believe it was real. 

The Tiber river was sparkling under the headlights, reflecting them and creating a lunatic but provocative interplay of colorful shades. Massive speakers had been laid out along the riverbank, the techno electronic music was intense, pressing, frenetic, loud and made the windows of Camaro shake, synchronized with the beat.

Adam couldn't believe all this would completely disappear before dawn.

Neither he nor Gansey said one word getting out of the car. As soon as they were out, they were met by the stench of weed, burnt tires and God knew what else. It was packed with people, despite the late hour, crowded next to the speakers, around their cars. Some of them were dancing dragged by the beat, some laid back in the seats of their cars. Many of the faces he saw displayed a blank expression, probably caused by some kind of chemical trip.

Adam felt uncomfortable when a girl, laughing, 

threw herself at Gansey, wrapping her arms around his neck. He heard her murmuring in his ear, in a low distorted voice, and with an eastern European accent.

"Honey… I can race with you if you want."

He noticed the smell of alcohol in her breath but Gansey didn't seem worried or upset about that. He gently laid his hands on her hips to move her away delicately.

"No, I would love that but, unfortunately, I don't race."

He politely turned her down and went back to him.

"You would love that?"

Adam made fun of him. Gansey hissed, brushing a thumb over his lower lip.

"Do you genuinely think that I've lost my mind?"

Adam snorted a laugh before getting back to observe which surrounded them.

However, beyond any doubt, the stars of the night were the motorcycles. He observed all of them and their splendid windshield. On some there were pictures on other tribal drawings, he focused on searching for Ronan's one until his eyes didn't stop on a big drawing of Lazio's badge. As he recognized the kitsch dragon next to the eagle, on the Yamaha, he hissed swearing through gritted teeth.

"Oh, God, why. I knew it! That goddamn bulgarian douchebag. It should have been obvious."

"Do you know Kavinsky?"

"Unfortunately. I do."

Dzhouzef -or Josif. Or Joseph. Or  _ who-the-fuck-really-cares _ \- Kavinsky was born in Tiburtina a year before him and left the neighborhood way too late, in his opinion.

He had never actually come in contact with him, luckily, but it was nearly impossible to forget his evil eyes and the dark circles under them. It was impossible to forget the distaste of being in his field of view. Impossible to forget his bad deeds on the block or the twisted games he had played on unfortunate souls guilty just of being on his way, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Do Romanians hate Bulgarians?"

"The stereotype is that Romanians hating Hungarians but I think you should hate Kavinsky because he is Kavinsky. Not because he's Bulgarian."

After Kavinsky father's death, he and his mother had left the neighborhood and it had been good riddance.

He caught his eye and grinned then raised his middle finger, squeezing the tip of his tongue between his teeth, in a challenging way. Adam was halfway into accepting the challenge and raising his middle finger but something interrupted him, fortunately.

"Thank God, Parrish! You are here!"

As if the mountain will not come to Muhammad, then Muhammad will so if they didn't find Ronan, then Ronan found them.

And he looked much more enthusiastic than he had been in the morning, it was like the shadowy Ronan from a few hours before had never existed. He looked also excited to see him even if he had skewed his name.

"It's Parrišescu*."

"Yeah but it sucks. It reminds me of some shitty Bulgarian stuff."

"It's Romanian."

"It's all the same. Who cares."

"I care. That's a low blow, man!"

Ronan softly laughed, brushing one hand hover his buzzcut. Considering Ronan's mood, Gansey's previous worry, unquestionably reasonable, seemed nonsensical, now.

"Ok."

Adam quietly replayed then he deeply inhaled, looking him stealthily.

"Lynchisky."

He dropped the bomb.

"C'mon Asshole! You want me to throw up what I just ate?"

"It's all the same, you know. Isn't it?"

Adam was pretty sure that if they'd had that back-and-forth on that morning, Ronan wouldn't have been as pleased.

Being Ronan Lynch meant, probability, constantly staying on an emotional swing.

Gansey laid one hand on Ronan's shoulders and deeply sighed.

"Can we leave now, please?"

"Sure."

That was strange.

In fact, Ronan grabbed one of Adam's arms to drag him away.

"I just have to do this one thing real quick, then we'll leave."

He didn't know but he found himself on the Harley Davidson, it happened too fast for him to realize anything.

"What the hell-- Lynch, why--"

But Ronan had already turned on the motorcycle, Adam heard the engine menacingly rumbling, his legs shaking because of its strength. 

Ronan was pressing the brake and, at the same time, hitting the accelerator making the back wheel roll on the gravel, generating a cloud of dust. He turned towards Adam and raised an eyebrow like all of that was just routine and Adam was the fool.

"Because Gansey is too heavy and Noah too much of a coward but I absolutely have to beat that fucking piece of shit."

Then he raised an arm, gesturing at someone else.

"Czerny, Parrish's here. Help him get in the right position."

"What?"

"I have no time. I'll explain later. I can't lose against that shithead."

Adam was so astonished that his mind was blank. Had he ever given the impression of hating life enough to be involved in an underground race? No, he was firmly sure he had not. But, also, he was dismayed enough to let Noah do whatever he wanted.

It definitely hadn't been his best idea for the night: it ended up with him sitting backward on the seat of the Harley, tied back to back to Ronan with a belt that Noah was tightening around their hips, then tugged it to ensure it was tight enough. In the end, he patted one of Adam's shoulders and smiled at him and his appealed eyes.

"Good luck, guys! May the odds be ever in your favor!"

"You, traitor!"

Adam came out of his hibernation. Maybe he was too late given the fact that Ronan was already moving towards the starting line. He pawed the saddlebag in order to keep his balance. He looked to the left, than to the right: All the racers were lined up, with someone tied on their back, doing doughnuts on the glowing asphalt. The Yamaha pulled up beside them, the first thing he saw was the kitsch dragon then the blank grin on Prokopenko's mouth. Only at the end, he caught Kavinsky's eyed.

He vulgarly burst into a laugh, making Adam nauseated.

"Do you bring your new girlfriend, sweetheart?"

But Ronan didn't seem to have listened, he hit the accelerator again and, again, Adam legs shook. 

"Ok. Hang on, Parrish."

He told him with a hoarse and deep voice. Adam glimpsed at his expression reflected in one of the rearview mirrors, it was focused on the streets but in his eyes, he perceived shades of something thrilling, something deliriant.

"'Hang on' my ass. I want to get down."

"Too late."

Just second: his stomach churned for the spin off. It really was too late. Ronan was hurtling on the streets, he held on tight to the seat but it became no longer enough when the Harley drifted on a sharp turn because Adam lost his balance, Ronan immediately took notice and took one hand off the steering wheel to hold him in place, so he wouldn't fall down.

Adam gasped and stopped breathing, Ronan clutched to one of his arms, brushing his fingertips all the way over it and tightened his grip over his wrist to put his hand on one of his hips.

That was unexpectedly gentle.

"I told you to hang on, Parrish."

"And I told you 'hang on my ass'."

"Ow ok, if that's what you want."

"Perish, Desdemona!"

Quoting Shakespeare had never been so liberating. He held on to Ronan's hips with both his hands. Clearly, Ronan saw that as an incentive to be even more reckless: with genuine horror on Adam's part, he wheeled.

The asphalt became incredibly close to Adam's nose and he held even more tight to Ronan's hips between, he felt his throat dry up and his stomach do a backflip.

"Do you have to wheel?"

"Do you have to keep talking?"

"Jesus Christ, have mercy on me."

"Parrish, you didn't strike me as the religious type."

Ronan laughed loudly and, as the front wheel came back on the ground, the metal letting out a small shrinking noise, he stumbled again in front of Kavinsky: they had just surpassed him.

Ronan drifted again and stopped: they had reached the finish line.

Ronan untied the belt and got down, moving in front of him to shake him by holding his shoulders.

"We won!"

Then Adam threw up on Ronan's leather jacket.

The adrenaline rush was too strong for him to keep it in. The last thing he saw before retching was 'Balenciaga' written on his chest. He would have never been able to repay it.

It must have cost as much as his entire apartment.

It was humiliating and he thought he could hear Ronan picking on him already made him feel even worse.

But it didn't happen.

He heard Ronan sighing and he felt Ronan's hand pressing his forehead to support his head.

He heard a voice: "aren't you coming, sweetheart?"

He heard Ronan's voice too: "What the fuck he's throwing up. Get lost, you freak."

The tone of his voice had been annoyed and spiteful. It wasn't whenever it brushed against his ear.

It was soft, warm, gentle, concerned like he had never heard him before.

"It's ok, Adam. Everything's fine."

It was ok. Everything was going to be fine.

And in spite of what had happened, it really looked like Everything would have been fine, at that moment.

Everything was fine.

And for the first time, Adam felt safe. With Ronan.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Salvini: he is an Italian politician who served as Deputy Prime Minister of Italy and Minister of the Interior from 1 June 2018 to 5 September 2019. A nice homophobic and racist guy!  
**Nenorocit: as Adam said, it means "asshole" in Romanian.
> 
> Here we are again!  
First of all, anyone is arrived to the finish line, has all my respect.  
I want to thank everyone is reading me and who is kudos-ing my fic.  
Last but not least all my loving and gratitude to my beta reader, crostiina. I love you, baby girl.
> 
> SEE YOU IN THE NEXY CHAPTER
> 
> HASTA LA VISTA


	3. Family Sayings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is a tribute to Natalia Ginzburg and to her book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ""It is necessary for a prince wishing to hold his own to know how to do wrong, and to make use of it or not according to necessity." - Niccolò Machiavelli

_ 24 ott - 07.56 a.m - SMS from Gansey: "Are you alright? First time boosting on a Harley has to be pretty traumatic." _

_ 24 ott - 02.55 a.m - SMS from Gansey: "Are you still alive? I'm starting to worry a little." _

_ 24 ott - 08.40 p.m - SMS from Gansey: "I'm definitely worried now." _

_ 25 ott - 05.13 a.m - SMS from Gansey: "I'm worried and also going to be late for school. I'm waiting for you down the road." _

_ 25 ott - 11.22 p.m- SMS from Gansey: "I'm wondering whether your phone actually works, but you're still reading my texts, so it has to. Are you okay? Did something happen?" _

_ 26 ott - 04.45 a.m - SMS from Gansey: “Astute. Now you’re just ignoring me altogether.” _

Adam had learned to block out the dark thoughts when he was eight: he couldn't remember what had happened in particular, all he remembered were his father, the stench of alcohol.

He remembered he was yelling at him and his mother but he didn't remember the reason  _ why _ . 

He remembered the slap, as if it had happened the day before.

He remembered himself falling down, as it had happened to someone else.

He remembered his mother whispering: "How can you do this to me?". She was not talking to his father.

He remembered her crying those words to him, as if everything had been his fault.

He remembered thinking: "It's my fault, everything is." As if any of could have been considered evidence. 

Everything had been his fault: if only he had avoided acting that way, he wouldn’t have sins anymore.

But which sins were those?

What kept him awake for the following weeks had been the struggle and the anxiety of not being able to recall not even one of the faults.

He mastered the art of being invisible and soundless. An invisible and soundless child couldn't do any harm, he thought.

He learned, indeed, to block out the painful thoughts and make himself look calm, relaxed, definitely normal.

It was not that hard: he could push through being around people. He was not crabby or anxiety-ridden. He pushed through the morning and had conversations with classmates without feeling total despair. On a good day, he could focus and have mental clarity. He looked like a capable, productive person.

A good day was him being able to get up before or together with his alarm, shower, and put on his face.

A bad day was him fighting with himself to wake up and having to shame himself into showering and getting himself together. He put on some of his mother's makeup, to cover up the bruises and not alert people. He didn't want to talk or be bothered by anyone. 

He had more bad days than good ones, but he had gotten good at faking, so that his teachers, classmates or friends would think he was a great student, a composed young man and a good friend. 

But inside, he knew that he wan’t delivering as good as he knew he could.

Getting through a bad day was exhausting: he did get things done but not at his best. It took much longer to accomplish everything. There was a lot of staring off into space, of trying to regain control of his mind.

One of the most helpful things he did on these days was prioritizing his tasks: he knew the harder he pushed himself, the more likely he was to crumble, so he made sure he did the harder things when he had the most energy.

But that day it wasn't enough.

That was not a bad day. That was a  _ blank _ day preceded by other two  _ blank _ days.

Smiling and forcing himself to laugh when plagued by the feeling that all the people he interacted with only tolerated him, his secondhand uniform, his Italian accent and his existence in the world, wasn't enough.

He didn't have the strength to make people feel like he was worth their time because, fransky, he didn't feel like he was.It was knowing that he was useless and a waste of oxygen and do everything in his power to prove himself wrong by being the best student, best son, best friend he could be: that was the hardest part.

_ 26 ott - 05.56 a.m - SMS from Gansey: “Adam, I’m going to come outside your apartment if you don’t show up within the next hour.” _

When he had come back home, two days before, he knew the following day would have been bad. 

Because he had slipped out from his father.

Because he had come back at 5.00 A.M and he knew his father would have been awake already.

Because he smelled like puke and smoke.

Because he had gotten in with a smile and his father had thought he was teasing him.

And on that same morning, looking at his reflection in the mirror, a couple of hours later, he had realized he wouldn’t have been able to go to school for at least two days.

Bruises on his nose, on his cheeks and a swollen eye couldn't behad covered by his mother's concealer or foundation.

Moreover, he couldn't find the strength to deal with his emotions after what had happened during the race and, consequently, was too exhausted to faking it through another day.

That night, on Gregorio VII avenue, Ronan had run his fingers through Adam's hair and whispered to his ear that everything would have been alright and Adam had believed him. He had forgotten that, in his case, having hope only served to break him, every time worse than the ones before.

He couldn't forget the feeling of being safe, though. And that had tormented him since the race.

Ronan's gentleness was killing him.

And he couldn't explain o himself why it was happening and why it hit him.

_ 26 ott. 06.15 a.m - SMS from Gansey: “Well. You asked for it.” _

From time to time he surprised himself wondering if his mother hated him. 

There was a burning in his pride, a nervous blending in his brain, thoughts crawling in his mind like cockroaches: did his mother hate him?

Or, had she ever hated him?

Her pain was always silent but it tore him apart whenever he looked into her eyes, he heard it as if it was a deafening roar.

When he was a child, he kept telling her: "I promise, I'll be better. Mămică*, i'll do anything" every time he had made his father mad. But he never succeeded.

And every time he heard glasses breaking, she came near his bed, caressed his head and murmured: "Tatăl tău te iubeşte*, no matter what he did, it's true. I know he hurt you but remember, mămică ta te iubeşte, si eu*."

Whenever it happened, he always faked being asleep.

Maybe he should have acted differently: he should have caressed her too, he should have nodded and replayed: "și eu te iubesc, mămi,a din toăta inima.", he should have had the courage of raising to the occasion, telling her to escape, together.

He should have not pretended to sleep, not when she had come to caress him as he slept, nor whenever he had heard glass breaking in the kitchen.

Maybe if he had done that, now she wouldn't detest him.

Now she wouldn't detest him for all the things he didn't do for her.

"It's for you."

Adam raised one eyebrow when his mother entered his room. He didn't ask, he just looked at her with an interrogatory expression.

"At the door. Someone wants to see you."

He thought about the messages he hadn’t to. The thought it could be Gansey chilled him to the bone, freezing the blood in his veins.

"Ce naira vrea? Nu-ți aduci niciodată iubitul aici, Adam."

"Gata."*

He instantly got up, rushed to the door and closed it behind his back. He had forgotten the bruises on his face but he was instantly reminded about them by Gansey’s expression. Through his eyes he saw horror, he saw his shock, he saw his indignation but what made irritated him above everything was his compassion.

It was humiliating, abhorrent, annoying. He ground his teeth and breathed in heavily.

"Don't look at me like that."

Adam hissed, trying to appear confident, dominant, master of the situation even though Gansey faired made his blood boil.

Pity was the last thing he needed. Leaning against the door, Adam sighed and crossed his arms, in order to show himself calm, compensating for what his inflection had failed.

"How should I look at you, then? God, Adam, who did that? Was that your father?"

Unfortunately, Gansey didn't seem to understand his situation and it was fair: he was Gansey. Probably not even in his worst nightmares he could have imagined something like that. He knew things like that happened, but maybe far away. He probably saw them as detached from him and his world. It made Adam even more sick and tired, what egged him to abandon the original idea of showing himself purposeful and self-possessed.

"It's ok. I knew it could happen. It's alright. You can go, now."

He had been brusque and rough.

"I'm terribly sorry, Adam."

Gansey was indulgent and compassionate. And  _ that _ pushed him over the edge.

The fact itself that Gansey thought he could be guilty in that situation pushed him over the edge: with what kind of hubris, could Gansey think he had any relevance over his family issues? 

He had no right to look sorry, or guilty or whatever he wanted: it wasn’t his business, he would have never been able to understand.

"You don't--- it's just--- shit, I said don't look at me. And don't say my name like…  _ that. _ "

Adam exploded. He didn't want his pity, his compassion, he didn't want Gansey saying his name as if he was approaching a wounded beast. It was getting on his nerves and he took off, opening his arms, going wilder.

"It's not your fault. I chose to follow you, to help you. I chose to stay at the race, I knew it could turn out like this and i consciously chose to come home at 5 a.m.. So you can stop feeling guilty and go, prince charming, because, as I said you cannot save absolutely no-one. 

And no-one needs to be saved by you. I'm sorry I haven't replied to your text but, please Gansey, get out. Get the fuck out, this is not a place for you."

He didn't mean to be loud or aggressive but that was what happened. And Adam thought Gansey would ran and never look back but that was what didn't happened.

He had seen Gansey fight and struggle with Ronan, he had seen him being comprehensive, soft and gloomy.

That time, Gansey wrinkled his forehead and clenched his fists. He looked unmovable, with a thunderstorm in his eyes and Adam though, no matter how mad Gansey had to be, he looked fascinating.

"It's fine you're too proud to ask for help, but I'm not going to leave and, if you don't follow me then I might consider the possibility of talking to your parents."

"Gansey, this is blackmail."

"It is necessary for a prince wishing to hold his own to know how to do wrong, and to make use of it or not according to necessity.*"

The first thing Adam thought was that Machiavelli's opera sat perfectly on Gansey's lips.   
Gansey knew perfectly how to ‘do wrong’ for his own ends. Adam had the perception of being the last puppet Gansey needed for his ultimate collection: the guy with the dysfunctional family. He imagined himself exposed on a shelf, next to Ronan, The guy with dysfunctional behavior. It was an incredibly discomforting image, a disturbing one. But he didn’t have the strength to fight, and in a tiny corner of his mind, a little voice was saying: ‘let it be, relax, breathe. Let it be.’. He breathed in and, shamefully, wished that, for once, he could just let everything be. 

For once, Adam wished he could yield to Gansey’s control. For once, he wanted to ignore all of his responsibilities. He knew there would be consequences although, at that moment, he just needed to release himself from the burden of being Adam Parrişcescu. 

The second thing he thought was that he did want escape from his house.

Then he perceived the anxiety of being here while his parents with barely a plywood door separating them from his parents.He was still mad at Gansey, but he knew he wouldn't have left and let it go. Gansey never let things go.

"They can't even understand you. They don't speak english and your italian sucks. Shit, Gansey."

He hissed with a whimper.

Then he opened the door and sighed irritated, still nervous.

"Shit. Shit.  _ Shit _ . Stay here, prince charming. I'll be here in five minutes."

●●●●

In dire straits, his wounds were going deeper and deeper inside of him.

As he said: Gansey couldn't save him. Nobody could. He was going to save himself.

Then, on the Avenue of the Academia, he saw Ronan.

He noticed his eyes stopping on his bruises only for a few seconds. He remembered his fingers through his hair.

And, somehow, he thought Ronan could help him freeing himself from that frozen pain.

With his lips, with his eyes.

He needed his love. He would chase after Ronan's shadow running barefoot.

He wanted to need his love.

The more he tried to shout it away, the more twisted it got.

He wanted his love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Mămică: romanian term of endearment for "Mother". It's quite similar to "Mommy"  
**Tatăl tău te iubeşte: Your dad loves you ( nda: FUCK ME)  
***mămică ta te iubeşte, si eu: Your mommy loves you too  
****și eu te iubesc, mămi,a din toăta inima: I love you too, mum, with all my soul  
*****"Ce naira vrea? Nu-ți aduci niciodată iubitul aici, Adam.": What (the fuck) does he want? You never bring your guys here, Adam  
"Gata.": gotcha  
****** Gansey is quoting the "Prince" of Niccolò Machiavelli
> 
> Here we are, again!  
Writing this chapter has been one of the hardest thing i've done in english.  
It's very hard writing about this type of topics. I'm trying to write something that had involved me, in the past and, at the same time, i'm trying to make it as close as possible to my italian writing style.  
I'm improving my english and i hope i was able to reproduce, even a bit, the emotions and the ponderings caused by a difficult situation of abuse.  
Writing this chapter, in addition, made me upset sometimes and other times made me an hopeless crybaby.  
I have to thanks my beta, Crostiina, as usual.  
And thanks everyone had read this chapter.
> 
> NOW  
BRACE YOURSELF: RONAN'S POV IS COMING.
> 
> HASTA LA VISTA


	4. Eurydice eluding Orfeo.

_ 'Why haven’t they made great rubbish dumps for the days already used, for these and other evenings?' _

One time,  _ he _ had asked him that. Ronan had been not able to answer, too focused on his shaky feet on the corner of Milvio's Bridge. Every limping gait had corresponded to Ronan's heart skipping a beat. He would have urged him to get off from there, but the words had kept overlapping on his tongue and inside his throat, making it hard to breathe, let alone speak. 

Kavinsky had cracked a burst of offbeat laughter and jumped over the ledge, grabbing the corner with his fingers and Ronan had thought that had to be the worst night of his entire life.

Then the disturbing laughter of Kavinsky had dispelled the silence, once again.

_ 'When the rent runs out on this useless body _

_ then I’ll receive my reward like a good mark.' _

He had said, and Ronan had preferred to close his eyes, to deal with his wild fear.

On that night, Ronan had thought he had to end it. He always thought that.

It was a story that should have been forgotten.

It was a story that should have never been told.

It was a rather complicated story.

It was a miserable story.

It started under the moonlight and between motorcycles and ended in a river of sorrow and dirty tricks.

It would have been a weird story, to normal people.

It was a suburban story.

It should have been a one-night-stand, at the beginning, and then it became a rambling mess.

It had begun at Termini during a restless night, a miserable one.

In the beady eyes of Kavinsky, he had seen the perdition he needed.

And Kavinsky in Ronan's lips, in his eyes and breaths had perceived the death he was craving since birth.

It was a miserable story, an insane one, an infesting disease that was sticking to Ronan's soul as if it was suffocating pitch.

_ 'And above all who put me in this world, and why, where I live my death electrifying ahead of time?' _

Another time, Kavinsky had asked him that, and Ronan had raised one eyebrow: the words that he had spoken, no longer had any shape nor accent, the sounds turned into a deaf lament. He had looked like a young Belial and Ronan had felt in need of salvation.

Then he had seen a guy running for the last train, with a furrow along his face that almost made for some kind of smile and Ronan had found absolution in his elegant perfection.

Even if, the following day, after class, he had called him an asshole.

On that same night, Kavinsky had whispered to his ear: ' _ if they cut you into little bits, I'll cook them flambeau' _ pushing hard inside of him and Ronan had moaned, thinking about the deranged imagine of his body in little pieced, of his mangled organs. He had wondered whether Adam would have liked flambeau.

He had envisioned his hands touching the bits of his body, his heart, his fingers taking a piece of him to his lips. He had envisioned Adam's tongue caressing his skin.

And then he came, hissing  _ 'fuck you' _ . 

That had made him feel dirty, wrong, interrupted and he had chosen to act in the only way he could: exploding whenever he wanted. 

And then the race happened, Adam hands grabbing his hips happened. Ronan's fingers through Adam's hair happened.

The bruises on Adam's face happened.

"See, new one. Next time you want to puke, Balenciaga will still be here for you, Parrish."

And he tried to not look struck, he tried to ignore Adam's external wounds as he ignored his own internal ones. 

He thought that being intrusive about whatever was happening was the worst thing someone could do and, looking at Gansey, he knew there was a massive burden hidden just out of plain sight.

"Ok, I can't complain. Call me 'Parrish'. Ok. Call me by whatever name you chose."

"'Call me by your name and I'll call you by mine'?"

"God, Gansey, why do you have to ruin everything?"

They looked at each other, before laughing, and Ronan thought Adam's laughter was salvific. With a divine smile and horrible wounds, Adam looked like the hero of his private hell.

His laughter had bursted out like he had been trying to hold it for a long time. 

Ronan thought it was a rare, beautiful, golden, child of the sorrow that Adam was constantly hiding behind his composed behavior.

Lucubrating on what or who could have reduced Adam to that state, made his hands itch, but Ronan knew it was better to calm himself down, take a breath and draw his thoughts away from him.

Knowing that his love was probably a pathology was enough to make him lie to his own hands and his own eyes about how much he long for Adam with every fiber of his being.

But, whenever he was wasted, fiction and reality collided and the pain became bigger than him, so intense that he wished never being able to feel again.

Because he felt nostalgic towards hands that had never touched him, towards a gaze that had never been laid on him on purpose, towards words that no one had never whispered.

Unrealistic nostalgia that felt realistically painful, physically destructive.

And how the hell was it possible?

There weren't transmissions between mucosas and yet, he had been contaminated by that love, it had come and carried desires and dizzy and it disclosed itself through passionate moans directed at Adam.

Every time it happened, one hand giving relief to his erection, his breathing seemed to whisper ' _ I want you here _ ', to the walls of his empty room.

He always felt empty and dirty after he came. He always asked himself how he was going to look at Adam straight in the eyes, the day after.

But it happened again, and again, and again. Every time he drank himself to oblivion and Adam was all he could think about.

"Do you have notes from yesterday?"

"Really? Do I look like the guy to take notes? I'm so pissed I think I'll let my salad eat me."

"Do you eat salad?"

"What the fuck, Parrish? Now I look like someone who eats salad. What's next? 'Ronan drinks cosmopolitans?' You're making it way worse."

"Oh, you: Cronan Bradshaw."

" 'Parrish likes throwing up on people?' "

" 'Lynch loves my vomit.' That's kinky."

" Oh, you don't know nothing, Adam Snowrrish."

He stopped on the way out of the classroom and grinned proudly, leaning over the door frame. Adam looked amused and calm, and maybe he really was. Ronan felt gratified.

Adam lifted his chin up and looked deeply into his eyes. He smiled at him and Ronan felt rewarded just for getting a smirk out of him.

Then he lowered his eyelids, looking at him and licked his own lips.

"Okay. My queen."

And he said it in an intimate, complicit way that took Ronan's breath away. He hissed and raised his wrist to his mouth, nibbling at one of the black bracelets he wore.

He moved his eyes away from Adam's smug face, he was touching him where it hurt.

"Javră.*"

He whispered between his teeth.

"Is that--"

But fate came to his rescue: the school bell ringed to announce classes beginning.

He pointed towards the inside of the door, encouraging him to enter the classroom and raised his eyebrows, pleased to see that now Adam was the confused one.

That had been Romanian.

But he would have never explained to him why he knew what it meant.

Because he had begun learning Romanian lying to himself about the reason. 

Officially, he was doing it to answer coherently to Adam's insults in Romanian.

Theoretically, it shouldn't have embarrassed him.

Practically, it did because he knew, intimately, he had begun learning Romanian  _ because _ of Adam.

Showing that he knew a bit of that language in front of Adam made him feel exposed.

It unmasked a step towards Adam he still was not ready to admit to himself, not yet. It touched an uncovered nerve: it was the total disruption of his already unstable balance.

He saw his fears became temptations. Now he felt like he was walking through a labyrinth and his sense of direction was lost under the sound of Adam's steps.

And he found his only salvation in playing hide and seek.

And he woke up from bloodstained dreams, washing the blame away from his knees, drying out his screams, spitting out breaths till his tongue bled. And he woke up wishing he could dream a different dream, wishing he could dream of being another man. And he wished he could dream of the right way to love Adam.

He sat behind him, biting the inside of his cheeks, trying to rationalize the bundle of feelings, but he failed and that made him feel upset and helpless.

He put airpods in and laid both of his hands on the desk, laying his chin on his knuckles.

Ronan closed his eyes, letting the beat drive his mind far away.

And he hoped of dreaming again.

  * ●●

"Jump on. Gansey has practice."

Ronan said cutting Adam off, caused a huge cloud of dust, he gave him his helmet and Adam raised an eyebrow. He looked reluctant, maybe mindful of his last time on the Harley. Ronan took his gaze from his bruises again and breathed deeply.

He thought about Eurydice, he thought that that yellow-greenish marks could be Eurydice's marks and that if he had stared at them once again, Adam would have disappeared.

He snorted, shaking the helmet and, at last, Adam took it and silently got on the motorcycle, laying his hands on Ronan's hips.

"Your helmet?"

"You're wearing it, smartass."

"Oh."

"It's fine. I never wear it anyway."

Neither of them talked. Ronan started the Harley and took a breath. The silence between them felt precious, in that moment, filled with a sort of complicity, softly full of words unspoken. It was not dividing them, it was warm, comforting, familiar, tender.

Adam's hands on his waist, Adam's chin on his shoulder, Adam's breath caressing his skin: it was ecstatic. 

Ronan was more comfortable with that tacit communication than he was with useless words.

Words were rarely necessary.

Words were advocates of every altercation between Gansey and Adam, words generated misunderstandings, words had thorns: they could only do harm. Adam brushed against the inside of Ronan's neck with his cheek, accidentally, gently. Ronan held his breath and, for a few moments, everything felt soft, everything lost contours, the world ceased to exist, he ceased to exist. For a few moments, Ronan existed only in Adam's hands, in his breath, in his accidental caresses and it felt like well deserved rest after his expiation.

"I should get to work."

Adam murmured against his neck and he nodded, silently, consciousness still dimmed by the perfect sensation of being here with him. He allowed his fingertips to touch lightly one of Adam's hand, and it didn't make him uneasy: as long as he didn't look at Adam, he could handle his own emotions.

Adam moved gently his fingers to meet his caress, to extend its duration, he interlaced them with Ronan's, joining and complying to their tacit conversation, with no need for words.

Ronan hoped it could last forever but he had to interrupt it to push the brakes: they have arrived at the garage.

Adam took a deep breath, staying still against his back, gripping his arms over his hips. Then he got off the Harley and handed him the helmet.

"Thank you."

He whispered, his tone was velvety, his smile was calm. Ronan shrugged. He wanted to ask him if he wanted a ride home but he stood there in silence, still thinking about the sensations from before.

"Go on, hurry up. You're going to be late."

Adam jiggled as if he had known that was a tentative to distract his attention and his heart stopped.

Then he smiled at him and Ronan snorted. He watched him enter the garage.

Next, he whizzed away.

●●●

"I hate these fuckin paddocks. I shit on your fucking feelings."

There was him and Kavinsky in Eur block, after Kavinsky stopped near the corner of the street.

There were his Mitsubishi and Big Fish bursting out from the speakers.

There was a lamppost with padlocks around it, signs of lovers' promises.

There was Kavinsky laughing prosaically, as his hands attacked the chains and their locks, trying to detach them until his cuticles started bleeding.

There was Ronan watching that scene laying on the passenger seat, before getting up and running next to him, grabbing at his hand.

"What the hell-- stop it, moron."

He hissed looking his bleeding fingernails. He watched drops of his blood stain his white shirt, then turned his gaze back up, to look at Kavinsky's eyes. He was grinning, bobbing his head to the beat. He put his hands over Ronan's face, brushing roughly his thumbs over his cheekbones. Ronan could feel the stench of his blood. A drop rolled all the way on his lips and he felt the taste of iron on his tongue.

Kavinsky looked at him, then somewhere behind Ronan's back and suddenly became excited, licking his own lips. 

There was the sound of familiar footsteps, the ones Ronan used to get lost behind, in the middle of his personal labyrinth.

There was cruel Kavinsky's grin.

There were still Manuel Agnelli's voice.

" _ Sei più bello vestito di lividi _ ."*

There was Adam passing them to their right.

There was Kavinsky quoting that damn lyrics of the song: 'you are prettier dressed in bruises.'

There was Ronan petrified by Adam's eyes, by what they were watching, by what his ears were listening.

There was Adam's sigh and his bitter smile, similar to a melancholic grimace.

There was him, unable to move, broken by the realization he had failed Adam and, a the same time, that he was making him sick.

There was Adam's back getting further and further away, carrying a piece of his rotten soul: Eurydice eluding an interrupted Orfeo.

There was Kavinsky brushing the tip of his nose against Ronan's, laughing psyched.

"Oh, no, my little slut. You're dirty."

He whispered against his lips, caressing them with his alcoholic breath.

Ronan breathed in, then nodded.

"I am."

He agreed.

He surely was dirty.

He felt unavoidably dirty.

And it was not all Kavinsky's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Javră: little bugger in romanian
> 
> I hope that I made the right idea of Ronan's POV. Writing it makes me always feel pressured.  
Thanks to my beta, as always.  
And thanks to CigaleDesNeiges and gaywiki that commented last chapter! I really appreciated them! 
> 
> SEE TO THE NEXT CHAPTER
> 
> HASTA LA VISTA


	5. Tell me i'm a good person

The truth was that it existed neither an alternative universe nor a different place in time suspended in space where the evanescent Adam’s figure could get closer to him without being irremediably damaged. 

He didn't notice but, instead, for all that time, he had begun hoping he could approach Adam. As if he were poison oak, he had begun unconsciously to stick to the idea that he could be more than he actually was, searching for a salvific light, not realizing that in the process he could have obscured the light itself, miscalculating the destructive force of his own being. 

Then he saw Adam's melancholic grimace and he had craved to sink into that blessed oblivion.

If he only could have made a deal with god, he would have asked him to eradicate his ruinous existence from that world.

He came back home - the old abandoned elementary school of the fascist era that Gansey had decided should have been his house, first, then Ronan's and Noah's too- he felt his strengths completely dissipated by the big rambling mess his life was becoming, both for himself and everyone who cared about him.

With every passing second, Ronan was being led more and more towards the trap hidden in the darkness, and he was already feeling fear creeping up his body as the end of the day threatened his stability, stripping him of the ability to do everything-- walking, eating, talking, touching Gansey's shoulders, anything at all.

He opened the front door and Gansey was there, sitting at the corner of his bed, still awake and it was a consolation but, at the same time, made him anxious.

Ronan was completely wasted as he dragged himself to the bed, sitting next to Gansey.

"Is everything alright?"

Ronan sighed loudly, struggling to breathe, and laid his head on Gansey's shoulder, closed his eyes and stay still. He could sense the concern of his best friend summoned by the stench of alcohol in his breath, his aseptic expression, and his laboured breathing. He felt Gansey's hand holding one of his knees, he felt his thumb brushing the naked skin peeking out from a tear in his jeans.

Ronan muttered and covered his mouth with one hand, not allowing any sound to come out.

He would have wanted to deserve all the attention, all of his love, he would have wanted to be worthy of his time and his insomnia but the only thing he could do was keep breathing.

He couldn't take the burden of his existence anymore, he wanted to be another Ronan or, at least, the Ronan of the past and he felt his eyes burning.

Breathing became harder, something was dragging him in the darkness, making him breathless and the more he tried to breathe in, the more he was out of air.

It was like dying while still being alive.

He thought he wanted to drown but, at that moment, he did feel like he was drowning and he didn't want it, not anymore.

As he thought that he needed a safety net, Gansey wrapped one arm around his shoulders.

It seemed like everything could be better.

Ronan sobbed, feeling his hands shaking.

He needed to believe he could be more than that. More than a drunk used to breaking the people he was supposed to protect.

"Ronan?"

"Gans… tell me I'm a good person."

The words just came out, an expression of his need to legitimize his existence and of his desire to being, to some extent, fixed.

He was too wasted to regret saying it, it had been a whisper, barely there and filled with tears even if his face was still dry against Gansey's shoulder.   
He felt fragile and small, he couldn’t hold on to the truth as it slipped right through his fingers like a picture made of smoke. He didn’t know how to make it stop because his body was so weak that he was scared of crumbling down.   
He felt like a single speck of dust, nothing more: ashes to ashes.

Now his heart was empty and numb except for the unrelenting impulse to destroy everything concerning himself. And he knew it was born from pain, from losing the will to choose on the day he had broken down.   
It made him want to end it all with his own hands. Was it wrong?   
Oppression spun round and round, he just wanted go on without feeling anything.

He asked Gansey to tell him he was a good person, but if someone really were to tell him what kind of person he was, the words would have been: 'good for nothing.'

He felt Gansey’s hand brushing over his shoulder before holding it tight, he heard him sigh deeply.

“You are a good person.”   
“You are a liar.”   
  
Ronan groaned, but his voice had a lighter nuance of recalcitrant thought, a bit snarky, a bit reassured by the relief brought by Gansey’s words. He looked up, meeting Gansey’s eyes.

“And you are drunk.”

“Amazing.”   
  
He couldn’t explain why Gansey was loyal to his disastrous cause, in a dispassionate, all-embracing way, as if he saw something Ronan wasn’t able to see. There was no point in that but there was no need: it was love for love’s sake.

And Ronan knew he had started to love Gansey, in the beginning, because sometimes he didn’t feel strong enough and he just wanted to sit next to him, laying his forehead over his shoulder, and hearing him say: ‘ _ Panta rhei: everything flows, everything passes, except for us _ ’.

And he needed to believe it was true.   
He needed everything to pass. Everything but them.   
  


  
  
  


  * ●●

  
  
  


He wasn't sure which was more annoying, the alarm or his hangover, but the only thing he was sure of, was that both of them were a lethal mix that forced him to open his eyes with a lament.

He rubbed one temple with his hand, trying to soothe his synapsis regardless of that horrible awakening and cursed: as the clarity came back, he felt the weight of discouragement burdening his chest.

He felt the cruelty of daybreak on his nerves, on his body and he turned around on the bed, facing away from the alarm, from his presence, trying to banish his cumbersome existence a little longer.

The ringtone didn’t seem to agree: it rang, and rang again, keeping up a steady desecrating beat.

Ronan muttered and jumped to his feet, trashing everything, not minding the chaos building in his room. He would have found that damn smartphone and destroyed it.

He tripped over some sweatpants but, finally, he found that devilish device, stuck between his nightstand and the wall.

And it was off, probably dead since the last time he had charged it - and he didn't even remember when that could have been.-

Effectively, he thought, he had never set an alarm. Or owned a working telephone.

However the noise kept going, he flattered his eyelashes,his perplexed gaze lost in the wall before he got it: it was the doorbell.

"That’s fucking rude!"

He screamed, certain it was Noah behind the front door, probably having forgotten something that wasn't worth more than his sleep. He ground his teeth, burning with fury, grabbed the doorknob and, voluntarily, slammed the door against the wall.

"You're a dead man. I'm gonna succeed where Whelk failed!"

He cursed more with every step.

First step: he was furious.

"You know what they say, "do it yourself, it's three times better". Isn't it?"

Second step: he had to admit that creating curses was barely amusing.

"I’m going to fucking kill you, you jackass."

Third step, he grabbed the door handle and inhaled.

"I’m going to fuckin destroy-"

Mission aborted. Mission aborted: mayday, mayday. That was not a drill.

And that, in front of him, wasn't Noah.

"...you."

He heard his own voice come out like a hiccup.

" _ Me _ ."

_ Him. _

And Ronan was so stunned he couldn't hold or hide a whimper, coming straight from the deeper meanders of his soul.

His breath hitched when he saw Adam gazing leisurely at his naked chest and when his eyes traveled back up and ensnared his own, he saw a weird emotion flickering in them.

Then, for his astonishment, Adam's jaw locked, his face darkened, his hands clenched into fist as if he was trying to hold back something.

Ronan opened his lips to speak even if he didn't know what to say, but there was no need for it: Adam laid a finger on his lower lip.

"No."

He said, brushing his fingertip all the way from one corner of Ronan's lip to the other. Ronan felt like he was losing it: he recalled his body in bits, his fantasies on Adam's hand caressing his skin before tasting it. He stopped breathing, worried that even the smallest movement could ruin that oneiric moment.

He could not understand what was happening, why Adam had come to him, why he was looking at him that way, why he looked so frightened and, at the same time, furious.

Now, his hands were on Ronan's shoulders pushing him back. He wanted to ask him why when Adam was suddenly looming over him, trapping his body between his legs, his hands, and the wall. Adam's face was inches away from Ronan's, his eyes into Ronan’s and Ronan could perceive a kind of desperation in them, the same one he felt.

"Don't say anything.", he whispered.

Then he kissed him.

Ronan tensed when Adam's lips touched his, his mind refusing to comprehend what was going on. One of his hands cupped Ronan's cheek, another snaking around his neck as he craned his head. He kissed him deeper, licking his lower lips, and Ronan didn't have any problem parting them, mouth already gaping in both shock and delirious, violent happiness. Then he was inside his mouth, his tongue caressing his own making him blink. Finally, he realized what was going on. Adam was kissing him.

Adam's hand left his face and his arms were around Ronan's waist, pulling him closer.

Ronan laid his fingers on his chest, slowly, all the way to his neck, caressing his collarbones. He was truly kissing him, roughly and desperately, and Ronan found himself breathless, kissing him back.

He couldn't stop kissing Adam. He tasted like coffee. He tasted like nothing Ronan had tasted before. And it sent his sense wild.

His mind melting, his arms moved on their own accord, wrapping around Adam's neck and pulling him closer.

Adam groaned: it sounded like heaven.

It was bliss, it was forbidden, it was breathtaking. 

The kiss turned even more uncontrollable now that Adam realized he was responding.

Ronan wanted him to keep on kissing him, wanted Adam to drown him in his essence.

He seemed to be feeling the same need because he pulled himself between Ronan's legs growling into his mouth and rubbing his clothed erection against his pajamas. Ronan gasped, eyes wide, overloaded by sensations, and moaned when he felt Adam hard against him. He was lost in sensations grabbing at his shoulders with desperate need.

Adam continued, now kissing his neck, following the dark lines of his tattoo.

He raised his head from Ronan's neck and looked at him.

Ronan began fearing that's everything was going to end, suddenly, the way it had started.

And he still didn't know what was going on but he wanted it, he wanted him desperately and he couldn't wait.

Adam breathed on his lips, slowly and slowly he kissed him again, caressing his hips.

"Take your clothes off."

  
_ And the ocean burned _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourself smut is coming.  
And Adam's POV is coming back.  
As usual, thanks yo my betababygirl, Cristina.  
And thanks to CigaleDesNeiges for commenting last chapter.  
Last but not least, thanks y'all for hits and kudos.
> 
> HASTA LA VISTA


	6. To the limit of our suffering.

When Gansey told him Ronan wasn't coming to school, Adam felt irrationally guilty.

He had seen Ronan and Kavinsky, the night before, he had seen the blood staining Ronan's face, he had seen Kavinsky's fingertips brushing over his cheeks.

And he had felt, without any believable explanation, betrayed. Inside his soul, next to Ronan on the Harley, ahold of him, he believed both of them, him and Ronan, _ precisely they _ had shared one sense of relief and one feeling of serenity.

In Kavinsky's hands fondling over Ronan's skin, Adam had seen the absence of his own.

In Ronan's thrilled eyes, Adam had seen his guilt.

And he hadn't even heard the words Kavinsky had said to Ronan, he had been too busy running away and dealing with his unjustifiable rage.

He didn't remember what happened after that.

He didn't remember how suddenly figuring out he had wished he was Kavinsky had felt.

While Gansey was already changing the subject, he was staring at the ceiling, trying to remember. All he got were snapshots, flashbacks, fragments of the night before and of his entire life. He remembered a lonesome child, some time ago, that used to daydream he wasn't so invisible. There was, then, a later version of that child: a boy, who somehow got stuck with the conviction he was more than he actually was. It didn't help him much: he was still an immigrant's son, livid and scared. There was a slimmer version of him, one that was more depressed. He had locked himself in his room every time he didn't have to work for six months and had won a scholarship.

There was the boy who gave his first kiss in a public school bathroom which was interrupted by some guy taking a shit in the cubicle next door. There was more flashbacks of such romantic misadventures, he didn't remember whether any of them were worth his attention. He was pretty sure that all he had got from them was cum on his towels.

And they all concerned girls.

Then, there was Robert, shaking him as if he was trying to dislodge whatever it was that made Adam such a "sissy". Adam's eyes peered innocently into his father's; they seemed to grow larger the more he stared into them. His father's eyes were steelcold round boulders, filled with anger.

_ 'You don't act like a girl. You understand me _?'

There was Adam nodding his head, there was Robert who kept going: _ 'Nu. Nu. Nu. You don't nod. You have to answer me, boy. _'

And Adam didn't even remember why he looked like a "sissy" to his father, that time. He only remembered gurgling: _ 'Yes. Yes, papă.'. _

_ 'Don't nod, answer me, boy' _ was Robert's favorite catchphrase.

He expected himself to be perfect but, as everyone, in reality, he was full of sin and evil and he could live with it, pretending that it didn't exist but he couldn't ignore it.

And he felt it, he felt it while he was listening to Gansey but his mind was almost stuck on Ronan being alone at home.

'He's had a rough night.': that was what Gansey told him about Ronan's absence. And that was why Adam was feeling guilty: what had happened? What he had ignored? Could he have saved Ronan's rough-night?

"Is he home?"

"Who?"

"Ronan. You said he isn't coming today."

"Yes… I mean, he is supposed to be home, resting."

Adam reached for watch Gansey's Cartier on his wrist and clutched his tongue as he checked the time, taking in consideration leaving the school at that moment. Then he got up, aware of how foolish he looked, acting like that without any clear motive.

"Ok. I have to go. Tell teachers I have a fever and I'll be back tomorrow."

He didn't know what Gansey answered because he was already walking down the school avenue to leave.

He knew that if he didn't raise to the occasion now he wouldn't have been able to do something about the situation.

While he was walking briskly, he kept asking himself what he was trying to prove.

Probably nothing because there was no point nor rationality in the way he was acting.

He just couldn't stand picturing Kavinsky's hands over Ronan's skin, he couldn't bear their proximity to something that wasn't him.

He refused to believe that everything he had felt while Ronan was brushing his fingers over his knuckles, had only existed in his imagination.

And he wanted answers.

Maybe he couldn't claim them from Ronan, but he needed to see him, he needed to see he was alright, he needed to stare at him silently and try to feel that tacit and tender sense of relief again.

And he had never felt so alive.

The truth was that he couldn’t ignore the strong feelings Ronan’s eyes had generated in him since the very first moment they met. He could not ignore the feeling of vacuity in his joints when, after bringing him to work, Ronan had tried to pull himself together by telling him to move and not to be late. The truth was, all those things had started to belong to him.

And now they did: they belonged to him. Those things were squealing, they didn’t match the image from the night before, they didn’t match Kavinsky. And he needed Ronan to confirm it, he needed Ronan making sense of him again and he needed to exist in Ronan’s eyes.

He needed to embrace him to the limit of their suffering.

He needed both of them to find a place inside their soul where touching each other was not just pain.

He craved to be tied up together with him.

He did not mean to be so impetuous but kept knocking insistently, his anxiety growing fast as Ronan didn't answer. Adam felt his need turning into desperation, in the time of that waiting.

Then desperation turning into despair.

He needed him.

Before he kissed him, he hadn't noticed how lonely he had been for his whole life.

'Please, tie the two us up together, forever', he prayed to God.

Even if he wasn't religious.

  
  
  
  


  * ●●

  
  
  
  
  
  


"_ Take your clothes off. _"

He said and then he closed his eyes, he had felt so numb before that kiss but now he was ready to _ feel _Ronan, ready to make friends with all his demons and all the things he had kept hidden under his bed since he was a child, terrified by his father and his own desires. He was not going to hold on to those monsters anymore, he was going to let all the light in, to tear down the walls that had erected to separate himself from Ronan.

Adam had dreamt about that moment and now he both wanted and feared that it was just another one of his dreams as he grabbed Ronan's legs.

Ronan's arched his back against the wall and they both shivered, Adam felt Ronan rubbing against him, and moaning to his ear, Ronan's nails digging into his thighs.

"Fuck, Adam."

He whispered and Adam pulled his hands above his head, tangling his fingers with Ronan's and grinding his erection excruciatingly slowly against his pelvis.

He breathed on Ronan's lips, looking into his eyes and, then, he kissed him deeply, rubbing his hips against Ronan.

Every breath, every moan, every whisper Ronan was letting out, made Adam closer to losing his mind completely. Adam realized one of his hands had reached out to press against Ronan's hardness through the fabric of his sweatpants. He could feel it clearly, and it didn't make him disgusted, instead, it was hot, stimulant, thinking that Ronan was craving him and his next move made him want for more and more.

Ronan groaned, his lashes fluttering, and a hot pleasure sparkled through Adam at the touch of his finger over his hard cock.

Adam lowered his gaze to Ronan's hands, busy with unzipping his trousers and making him hold his breath.

It was really happening and he wanted it so much.

He raised a hand, brushing slowly over Ronan's lips before slowly putting two fingers in his mouth and caressing his tongue as Ronan close his lips around them. 

Adam started to breathe again before wrapping his fingers around his cock and Ronan gasped, his lips relaxing around Adam's fingers and giving them space to rub against his tongue again, as Ronan trembled against the wall, sucking on them and Adam groaned, feeling the need to close his eyes for a moment.

Looking at Ronan breathing hard through his nose because of what his hands were doing to him, was ecstatic.

He gasped, cursing against his fingers as Adam pushed him over the edge. Ronan came hard, his body flooded with warmth as he spilled into Adam's hand and over his trousers.

It was a glorious view and Adam rubbed him through it until Ronan slumped against the wall looking hazy, confused, drained in his post-coital bliss.

He closed his eyes, sighing as Adam pulled his hand away.

Adam didn't know how but, suddenly, he was the one being pushed against the wall.

Ronan's fingers grabbed for his shoulder and his lips were on Adam’s, his tongue in his mouth, searching for Adam's.

Ronan kissed him hard, brushing his fingertips all the way over his arms to tangle their fingers together again and pin Adam's back against the wall.

He moaned, melting under Ronan's mouth. 

Ronan pressed one of his thighs in between his legs and Adam sucked in a sharp breath.

"Ronan."

He whispered canting his hips forward, seeking more friction.

"Shut up, please."

Ronan replied and Adam groaned because his tone of voice was so filled with voluptuousness and urgency that made him flounder. There was a nuance of desperation in Ronan's eyes, a need of validation that Adam wanted satisfy so he kissed him, tenderly, slowly, caressing his back. Ronan was melting over his lips and that made him emotional then he open his eyes, catching Adam's gaze and suddenly, slid on his knees.

He pressed his lips to the bulge in Adam's trousers and Adam moaned, squeezing the fingers that were still tangled with Ronan's.

Ronan freed his hand to slowly pull down his pants, then turning his attention towards Adam's boxers, to mouth wetly at his hardness through the fabric, Adam's breathing hitching on a whine.

Finally, Ronan slowly tugged his boxers down and breathing deeply on his foreskin, before slowly closing his mouth around the head of Adam's cock.

Adam groaned and tipped his head back against the wall while his finger curled over Ronan's head, caressing his buzzcut as Ronan's tongue flicked over his cock.

He thought he could die over his lips but, when Ronan took more of him down his throat, he thought that it was a good moment to be alive.

He lost control for a bit, thrusting into Ronan's mouth. When he opened his eyes again to look at Ronan's they were beautiful.

He breathed again, caressing Ronan's temple, all the way to his cheek, then brushing his thumb over Ronan's lower lip, still wrapped around his cock, before moaning again, and he wasn't sure if that was because of the pleasure or because of the view of Ronan kneeling in front of him.

Adam gasped as Ronan dragged his tongue on the back of his cock, before taking him in again.

"Ronan--"

But his voice hitched again because of another groan, generated by a little taste of Ronan's teeth.

"Oh god. Oh god."

He whispered without even thinking about what he was saying, because he had never had a pleasure like that.

Ronan was sucking him, fondling his balls, and Adam made a fatigued, strangled noise, his finger scraping Ronan's scalp as Ronan took him deeper. Adam bit down his lips but Ronan seemed not to appreciate him trying to keep quiet, giving him another hint of teeth.

Adam groaned loudly and came hard, hips rolling with his orgasm, finger shaking on Ronan's head.

"Oh fuck."

Because Ronan was swallowing him down, milking him dry before pulling off.

He kissed him again and Adam could taste his own taste in Ronan's tongue, hot enough to make him groan again over his mouth.

"God. Ronan."

"Have I already told that you didn't strike me as the religious type?"

"Jesus, Ronan."

"Stop it, Parrish."

And they burst out of laughing. 

Looking at each other they both blushed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA  
This is my first smut in english, please be merciful with me!  
Thanks to my beta, as usual. Cristina, the love of my life.  
And thank you to everyone read my bullshits!
> 
> HASTA LA VISTA
> 
> OH, last times i forgot: i did a fanart of Ronan and Adam on the Harley.  
Take [ THIS ](https://shamanda-lie.tumblr.com/post/188065308567/chapter-ii-fast-and-forious-rome-drift-junk)  



End file.
